The Dragonfall War
by Kyton2
Summary: The spawn of Tiamat come into Faerûn, and begin to spread. Prologue Updated. PLEASE READ AND REVIEW.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer:** The setting of this story, as well as the title, are not my own, but belong to Wizards of the Coast. All characters and most of the plot are my own. : )-

Prologue

Stirrings

Winter 1452-1453

Tributaries in the Rathgaunt Hills join, each contributing its minor flow to the stream. The stream becomes a river, the mighty Talar, leaping down from the peaks to the plains below. Travelers' tales of the Shaar, for that is the plain's name, tell of little civilized life off of the beaten trail. This is untrue, for many nomad tribes dwell in the expanses, and occasionally one will settle, the hearty folk setting up a small village in a prosperous area.

Adrui's Bend was one such town. When gold was discovered in the mountains, many people flocked to the area, and set up a large community. For several years, Adrui's Bend was populous, thriving off of the mines, and then the gold supply diminished, and the mines emptied. Many left the town, but a few stayed, mostly farmers who had set up plots. Adrui's Bend shrunk to a third of its size in under a month. The people who would not leave found a new source of income. Adrui's Bend was set on the River Talar as it enters the east half of the Channathwood, about thirty miles north of the path and right on the edge of the Rauthgaunt foothills, before the mountains. They key to the towns more recent success had been in the forest, for an abundance of hardwood was to be found.

Adrui's Bend thrived off of the lumber industry, never quite regaining its former size, but increasing to the size of commissioning a wall, on the grounds of the ever present threat of hobgoblins. The wall was completed, and the citizens of Adrui's Bend grew comfortable.

Then rumors started. Traders brought tales of massing hobgoblins in the mountains, and some of the rugged mountain men descended from their huts, many bearing recent wounds. A large dragon was seen one day, than never again. Scouts were sent out, some returned, bringing with them tales of recently cleared forest and new hobgoblin fortresses.

The Baron doubled the guard on the walls, and sent emissaries to Rethmar and Channathgate, the two nearest cities, requesting aid. Rethmar, after a week, was able to send a platoon of fifty archers, nearly one hundred foot soldiers, and more valuble, a wizard, one who focused on evocations, such as fireballs and lightning bolts. Channathgate was unable to lend support, for the city had recently suffered trouble with a large fire, and needed all of its population for rebuilding.

The first snows of winter fell with the Rethmar soldiers' arrival, and Adrui's Bend settled in to wait out the winter.

When the snows melted and the path reopened to the town, travelers found it gone, much of the community burned to the ground. Few survivors remained, and they told tales of great monsters, draconic demons who spat fire and death, of endless ranks of hobgoblins, many operating monolithic siege engines, trebuchets that hurled house sized boulders, ballistae that fired gargantuan spears.

The first blows of a war had been struck, a war that would cover Faerûn in darkness.

The Dragonfall War, staged by the evil spawn of the evil deity Tiamat, had started.

The fall of dragonkind had dawned.


	2. Chapter 1

The Summoning

Tarsakh (April) 1, 1451

Deep under the Rauthgaunt Mountains was the dwarven citadel of Triannor. Long abandoned by its original creators due to repeated attack by nearby hobgoblins, major epidemics of vicious disease, and a lack of trade, the massive fortress stood empty for generations. Triannor became legend, then myth, then passed from the knowledge of the surface…but not of the goblinoids. Deep beneath Faerûn, the hobgoblins moved from the countless miles of the Underdark into the protected halls of Triannor.

The hobgoblin king Daeruk, long remembered for the "conquest" of the halls, led battalions of troops into Triannor, wiping out a small hold of reclusive dwarves and routing monsters that had taken up residence. Triannor was claimed as the hobgoblin fortress of Arabor (literally dwarf-death), and the defenses were put back in place. From Arabor, Daeruk could send squads to roam the hills above, assault towns, and waylay travelers.

Time wore on, and a usurper, who murdered him in his sleep, replaced Daeruk. The new ruler, Sagitar, an enterprising cleric of Tiamat, sent larger bands to the surface, and started to claim the surface around Arabor for the hobgoblins. For the people living in the Shaar around the Rauthgaunt hills, hobgoblin fortresses seemed to spring up overnight. As her servant gained power, Tiamat sent several of her other servants, powerful red dragons from the surrounding plains, to secure Sagitar's hold on the fortress.

Now an aging Sagitar has passed on the mantle of king to his son Dagu, also a follower of Tiamat, and one increasingly in her favor. On this day, the anniversary of Daeruk's founding of Arabor, Dagu held a counsel of his closest advisors, deep in a remote area of the citadel, in a cavern he had created specially for this purpose.

As Dagu entered, the chambers occupants, none of them hobgoblins, but a diverse mix of demons, lesser devils, fiends, and evil humanoids, all worshipers of Tiamat, and all knowing what Dagu's appearance signified. A chant started, the unholy words of the prayer echoing through the cavern. Dagu, with his advisors walked slowly to the altar, which was suspended over a pit and accessible by a bone walkway. The altar held a large serrated knife, a silver bowl, and well as a large torch, all bearing the talisman of Tiamat engraved upon them. Dagu raised the dagger in his hand.

"Flesh of thy servant. I summon thee," he cried, and with a slashing motion, the knife arced down to separate his left hand at the wrist. The severed appendage dropped into the pit, quickly fading from sight. Dagu gasped in pain, and saw spots, but strengthened his resolve, determined to finish the chant. So great was his control that the stump ceased pumping blood.

"Blood of thy enemy. I summon thee" Dagu continued, his voice rising. A young dragon, its scales glinting gold in the torchlight was brought before him. Dagu rested the knife against its throat, then pushed, half severing the head. Dropping the knife, Dagu scooped up the bowl. As quickly as he could in his condition, he brought the vessel under the gaping wound, interrupting the spray. The bowl filled in under a minute, even though it held more than two gallons. Although the basin was full and the dragon's blood flowed over the rim, Dagu continued to hold it at arm's length until the fluid had ceased to flow. Holding the bowl and its contents above his head, Dagu slowly poured the contents into the pit, the silvery fluid dully shining. Dagu deposited the bowl back on the altar, then stepped back, careful on the floor, which was slick from the dragon's blood, which continued to trickle from the dead creature's neck.

"By the fires of the Abyss. I summon thee" Dagu's voice rose to a crescendo as he scooped up the torch and cast it into the pit, where, by it's fire, a pile of bodies, dwarven, human, and hobgoblin, could be seen, thrown in a rotting pile. The torch's fire began to spread, bodies being engulfed by fire, and the sickly smell of burning flesh permeating through the air. The fire in the pit raged higher and higher, waves of heat rolling off it. At the alter, Dagu sweated profusely, both from the heat and the anticipation. Suddenly, the fires roared up, nearly touching the roof of the chamber, over a hundred feet above. The flames died as quickly as they had arisen, leaving a towering dragon, larger than any specimen that had ever been seen on the face of Faerûn. The avatar, for that was what it was, had a dull tan body, nothing remarkable, comparable to any other dragon, but where the body ended and the neck began, the monster seemed more like a hydra. Five heads were where one should have been, all swaying on its own neck. Dagu could see the gigantic head of the red, the skull-like head of the black, the frilled head of the green, the horned head of the blue, and the gaunt face of the white, all staring at him, their looks conveying a sense of complete control. Dagu felt very small and helpless, especially as the dragon's long tail came around, the end carrying a stinger over twice his body length, and rested its tip on the alter, not five feet from his nose.

"You have asked for Tiamat" Said the avatar, its voice having an echo within itself, "And the Queen has answered. Tell of your question."

Dagu mustered up his courage, then spoke his answer "It is time; Arabor requires aid over that of the reds, who though mighty in their power, are not able to work well with my soldiers."

"Tiamat has acknowledged your plead, and sends her reply." With these final words, the Avatar departed, leaving a smell of brimstone in the air. The unholy ceremony ended, Dagu led his followers out of the chamber, leaving the demons to themselves.

In the main fortress preparations continued, for the hobgoblins had known for over a year of the impeding war. On the surface, many of the fortresses had begun construction of siege engines, great catapults, battering rams and ballistae. Underground the air was full of the screeching of smithies sharpening blades, blacksmiths pounding steel into weapons, and the tramp of thousands of soldiers' feet upon the hard unforgiving stone.

But not as hard and unforgiving of the heart of Tiamat, who rewards success with power, and failure with eternal torment.


	3. Chapter 2

The Wrong Men to Rob

Tarsakh 4, 1451

He strode through the streets of Theymarsh, his blue cloak flowing around his lean frame and his hood up, hiding his face in unnaturally dark shadow.

Daeric had come.

People around him took no notice, for he walked like many others in the town, possibly a sailor from the docks, or one of the men from the middle class section. They couldn't be more wrong.

Daeric had come.

Behind him, in the shadows, skulked another man, hooded and cloaked as well, but in a black vestment streaked with dark blue veins. His hands, hidden beneath black gloves of similar cloth to his cloak, had long thin fingers. He appeared unarmed, which, as many he had murdered had found, was an impression he liked to cultivate. The gloves on his hands were magical, each capable of storing a single item, and in each glove was a weapon, a pair of narrow scimitars, mirror images of each other.

This was Keiran, Daeric's bodyguard and assassin.

Daeric had come.

In another section of Theymarsh, Eric, the son of a poor fisherman, now deceased, and a poor fisherman himself, sat in front of his house, which consisted of several wooden boards nailed to a wooden frame, with a slightly thicker one serving as its roof. The inside of the shack was bare, the only thing of value being a small jeweled pendant, buried under the fire pit and belonging to Eric's mother, who supposedly died shortly after his birth. When Eric thought hard enough about it, though, he had memories of someone, a beautiful woman, holding and hugging him. He also had memories of a sword, curved and with a design like fire on its blade. He had memories of this blade covered in blood, and of his mother lying on the ground, not waking up, even when he shook her.

This day, Eric was grounded, his canoe sitting tied to the stake in front of his shack, upside down to keep it from being filled with rainwater, which pattered upon the sea, not fifteen feet from Eric's door. With a sigh, Eric lay back, easing his gangling six foot three inch frame onto his straw mattress. He closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep, falling into uneasy dreams, in which he revisited the scene of his mother's death.

Several minutes later, he awoke with a start, his hand on his dagger, ready to draw it, for he had heard footsteps in the mud, footsteps that seemed to be trying to be concealed, though the owner was doing a poor job. Eric lay back down, and peered through cracked eyelids at the doorway. His dagger was out, for ruffians were a common sight in this part of town and their antics were becoming more desperate as winter neared.

A shadow moved outside, and Eric tensed, then relaxed, for the shadow had coalesced itself into the recognizable shadow of Anor, a young child who haunted the docks, and was a friend of his, though many held dislike for him. Anor was a thief, though on their first meeting, Eric finding Anor's hand in his pocket, he had found a kinship between them, for Anor had few memories of his mother and was mostly abandoned as a child. Now, when ever he had surplus, Eric would leave a morsel out for Anor, and Anor would share any theivings with Eric.

Before the doorway, Anor's shadow halted, and Eric slid his dagger away. Then in a rush, the small boy bounded into the hut, his brown hair tousled and a broad grin upon his face. "Hallo Eric!" He yelled "I'm knowin' ye're not asleep!"

Eric sat up "Aye, but any thief might, and would be doin' summat foolhardy, stealin' from poor me. Ye're knowin' I've got nuthin' worth stealin, it'd be akin to searchin' a brothel fer a wife, there ain' nuthin' good."

"I be knowin' that" replied Anor, "Ye're poor as dirt, but, today I has somethin' that'll make ye smile." With that, Anor opened his cloak, and inside it were Several things, several thing's that made Eric's eyes sparkle: a beautifully crafted longsword, it's hilt and pommel set with small turquoise jewels; a dirk, another blade nearly a foot and a half long, of like workmanship; two red bottles of alcohol, Calimshan wine, by Eric's less than learned reading of the labels; and a three small sacks, though it bulged with unseen coins.

"I'm wearin' the best of it" Said Anor, opening his shirt to reveal a dull sea of mail rings, expertly crafted into armor. Further pulling off the garment, Anor revealed it fully, and Eric gasped, for by the top was set a band of gold, with an insignia crafted into the mail below it, five stars arrayed over a knife, the symbol of the Theymarsh assassin's guild, people who Eric wanted not quarrel with.

"Where did ye get these things?" he asked.

"Lucky break" answered Anor "I found my opportunity and took it"

Snatching the dirk, Eric held it up, letting the gems sparkle in the flickering firelight. "This is no common man's weapon, this is a Darkspawn's weapon." He dropped the blade, and shook Anor "Do you know what this means!?" Eric's voice rose shrilly "They're going to come and reclaim these, and kill you and me!" He collapsed, next to the knife, head in his hands.

"I wasn't planning on waitin' for 'em to find me" said Anor quietly "This is our chance to escape, to leave this all behind. To start a new life, somewhere" Anor's voice became excited, rising in volume "We have enough to buy horses, we can live off the land, your skill at fishing and mine at…at…"

"You shut it" said Eric, his voice low "do you want to bring every villain in the guild down upon our head. Return the weapons, I want no part in them"

"Fine, then have this, hope it pleases your heart!" yelled Anor, and, in one motion, he scooped up the dirk, tucked it into his belt, and threw a bag of coins at Eric's face, it shattered upon impact, sending gold coins spinning into the mud. Eric looked up, barely injured, but saddened, to see Anor run out the door.

Pausing only for a moment to scoop some soil over the densest concentration of coins, Eric ran out the door, but Anor was gone from sight. Cursing, Eric charged off in pursuit

Daeric's eyes flashed as a small figure slammed into him, then pushed away, nearly tripping him to the dirt. Daeric's bony hand shot from his sleeve, catching the youth by his arm. His grasp, due to years of holding nothing heavier than a scroll tube, was not firm, and in a moment, the boy had pulled away, and had run straight into Keiran, Whose much stronger grip had him immobilized in a moment, the razor edge of a scimitar to his throat.

"Shall I kill him my lord?" Keiran rasped, his voice oddly resembling that of a snake's "Or just break his bones?" He ended with a hiss-like laugh, and shook Anor, for that was who the unfortunate child was.

Anor's cloak flapped open and the items hidden inside were displayed, drawing a gasp from Keiran, who pressed the scimitar's blade in closer, drawing a line of blood, not deep, but enough to get the message across. Anor struggled in the binding grasp of his other arm.

"Where did you get these" said Keiran, his voice slightly higher than a whisper. When he continued, it seemed as if he was trying to make his voice sweet, though his words were anything but "Surely this little boy did not steal my old guild blades. No, that would result in most dire consequences." He paused then continued, his voice low again "Most dire consequences, if you catch my meaning. I can make you scream a thousand times for death before she spreads her comforting veil over your tortured soul."

Anor wet himself, and with a grunt of disgust, Keiran threw him down upon the ground, gasping for breath and clutching a newly broken arm, a parting present from Keiran, skillfully delivered in his thrust.

Eric saw Anor fall, heard the jarring crack of his bone snapping, but did nothing, fear held him in place.

He recognized Keiran.

Memories assailed him, of his mother, of this same hard faced man, his throat bleeding from a knife wound, stabbing his mother through the chest, her blood bathing him and forming pools upon the ground. He looked up, and though it had been over fifteen years, he recognized the assassin, saw the brown scar across his throat, confirming his identity, and could do nothing, he was petrified with fear.

Anor squealed, and Eric saw his little friend, someone he almost loved as a child, under Keiran's knees, as the assassin coolly lined up a knife, the very dirk he had held so many seconds prior, and began to plunge it into Anor's chest. The scene pushed away the fear, and with a roar of rage, he had his old rusted knife out, had it spinning towards Keiran, a one in a million throw. The knife, on its first ever flight, entered into Keiran's ribcage, puncturing his left lung before stopping, less than a hair's width from the evil man's heart.

With a cry of pain, he leapt up, laboring for breath, and let the dirk fall, to land, point down, quivering an inch from Anor's head. The blue robed man threw back his hood, regardless of the rain, and the tattoos of the rune casters of Calimshan shone forth.

His voice, aided by a spell, thundered forth "Who dares attack the servant of Daeric" Eric, more afraid than he had ever been before, ran forward and scooped up Anor, then fled, running down the street. Keiran moved to pursue, but felt the dagger in his side, could tell his lung had collapsed, and knew death was close. He gingerly pulled the knife from his side, growling away the pain. With a grunt, he pulled it out fully, opening the wound and allowing a fountain of blood to pour forth, for in his initial grasp of the dagger, he had moved it inwards that fatal hair's breadth, and his heart, like a deflating balloon, had widened the prick with a gout of blood, tearing open the hole, and now his blood spilled onto the muddy streets, blood mixing with rainwater.

In less than a minute, Keiran, the founder of the Darkspawn assassin's guild, slayer of hundreds, and murderer of Eric's mother, lay dead, mocking the powerful healing amulet Daeric had used to aid him.

Eric, Anor in his arms, ran on, not looking back, and not fearing pursuit, for he knew Keiran to be dead, His throw was just too lucky for him to be alive.

Taking a roundabout route, just in case anyone was following, Eric brought Anor to his hut. Laying his injured friend upon his bed, he examined first his throat, conscious of the line of red. Finding the cut to be no deeper than the skin, he relaxed, then he looked at Anor's right arm.

The bone had not been broken, it had been snapped, the end of one piece jutting from a tear in the skin. The other lost inside. Wincing, Eric had to turn away, and he vomited violently into the fire, almost extinguishing it. From the floor, he picked up several gold coins, and stuffed then into his pocket, then he picked up Anor, who, through pain filled eyes, regarded him briefly, then slumped unconscious.

Eric, Anor hugged close to him, slowly walked out the door, his eyes teary, hoping beyond hope that the clerics of the nearby temple to Ilmater would be able to save the arm, though he had a feeling in his heart that it would have to be amputated or Anor would be crippled for life.

Anor was stirring by the time Eric reached the church. When the guard at the door said "no admittance" (and held out his hand for payment), Eric paid him a "bribe" of a gold piece, and was allowed inside. The hall of the temple was decorated with several tapestries of Ilmater, ranging from his holiness performing healing to his followers praying while he viewed from the heavens. Eric had never seen such detail in anything before.

Laying Anor before the alter, Eric stepped back and knelt, head bowed in a prayer of thanks. When an initiate finally appeared, he leaped up, begging her to find his friend help. When she saw Anor's condition, for he was white as a sheet then, she sprang away, and a minute later, returned with a pair of clerics, their red robes sweeping along the tiled floor. One performed a quick spell, and before Eric's eyes, a blue spark traced the skin of Anor's arm around the protruding bone, erasing the blood and binding the skin to it. The initiate approached Eric.

"Father Andraeus says he can fix your son's arm, though it will take a month. He also requests that you make a donation to the church so it can continue to serve the people (Eric rolled his eyes at this). Is there anything else that the children of Ilmater can do for you?"

"No, my friend is my only probl'm" answered Eric, conscious of his dockside accent against the girl's practiced speech.

"May I inquire as to how the injury occurred? Your companion is in rather poor condition."

"Yeah, we had a little trouble on the street, tis nuttin'"

"I see"

Eric stayed at the temple that night, and deposited a gold piece in the collection box. The next day, he returned to his shack to retrieve Anor's cloak, and to dig up his mother's pendant.


	4. Chapter 3

-13

The Gathering of Clouds

Tarsakh 30, 1451

Dagu was in a good mood. Three days ago, a quartet of blue dragon's had appeared on his doorstep, and a tenday before that, a lone, but pregnant, black had arrived. One of the red dragon's had laid a clutch of seventy three eggs, an unusually large number. Already, four of these eggs had hatched, thanks to numerous spells Dagu's followers had woven over them, and the rest were nearly ready. Today was the day he inspected the newly hatched creatures, for his workers had reported not a single one was a dragon.

Striding toward the lower levels, where enormous Underdark caverns housed the dragons, Dagu felt a tough of excitement, his army was being born, his army, which, if all went well, would establish hobgoblins and their kin as the dominant race across Faerûn.

Dagu threw open the door to the birthing chamber, and strode inside. Five birthing clerics greeted him, all glowing red with a fire resisting spell. The reason why struck Dagu a moment later, when one of the creatures in the room looked at him and gave a small noise akin to a burp, which was accompanied by a gout of flame, flame which, due to Dagu's own preparations against the four elements, exploded into nothingness across his chest.

When the smoke died down, Dagu surveyed the room again. In one corner was a trio of 6 foot tall red-scaled humanoids, known as arcanisses, which were emitting sparks from their fingertips. The fourth creature was a squat monster, a firebelcher, somewhat akin to its red dragon mother, but much more heavyset, and without wings. It was this creature that had emitted the fire only seconds previous, and from what Dagu could see, it was ready to belch more into the air, an impossibly quick recovery time, compared to dragon's, which may take several minutes between breaths.

Another gout of flame, then another erupted, but this was from the group in the corner, their magical aptitude already revealing itself, though they were less than a day old. Fearing his protection would expire, Dagu withdrew, but not before getting blasted several times with the fiery breath of the young firebelcher.

Dagu rested a minute with his back to the door, his chest heaving as he sucked in cool air, replacing the stale hot oxygen in his lungs. Not twenty four hours out of their eggs, and already the firebelcher had grown to twice its original size, and the arcanisses, though fully grown at birth, had already mastered most of the spells Tiamat had blessed them with.

His army was going to be magnificent.

Eric slept in the great hall of the church, which had become his residence for the past weeks. His valuables, wrapped in Anor's cloak, were under his head, all except for the sword, which was alongside him. He had done little in the last tenday, except eat, sleep, and practice. In the quietness of the side halls of the church, Eric thrust, cut, feinted, and parried imaginary enemies with his new blade. He was still far from proficient, but he had a basic understanding of how to use the blade. Eric was too tired today to practice, and some of the benches in his favorite practice area had started to show some chips and scratches, along with spilled blood from Eric's arms and legs, which he still nicked with the sword's tip from time to time.

Now Eric rested, and in his slumber he took no notice of the men that entered the hall, men that seemed out of place in this holy place of worship, for they wore blades at their waists and their faces were wrapped in veils of silk, leaving only a slit for their eyes. Upon their breasts were runes inscribed around an all too familiar symbol. Darkspawn assassins.

Eric slumbered on, and began to snore.

The men filed into a row of benches five behind Eric and waited, their eyes scanning the walls and ceiling, seeking out any hidden defenders, which, of course, their were none.

An hour passed, and still the men did not move, though Eric woke up. He yawned and stretched, then sat up. From behind him, he heard a slight click, and felt a pain in his neck.

"What's goin' on" He said, turning, to see the three assassins, the center one with his arm outstretched. Eric eyed the apparatus on his arm, a tiny crossbow, built into a wristband. Eric's eyes widened, then closed.

His unconscious body slumped down onto the bench, then rolled down onto the floor, his head striking hard enough to cause a trickle of blood to rise from the newly formed bruise.

In Arabor, another seven of the red's eggs had hatched, and four more arcanisses, two fire belchers, and a wyrmling, a baby dragon, had been born. The wyrmling was allowed to remain with it's mother, but the other six were taken into raisers' hands, and kept separated from their older kin. The original four hatchlings had been move, the arcanisses housed in special quarters while the fire belcher reclined in a bubbling pool of lava.

Around midnight, shortly after the announcement of another five hatchlings emerging, a messenger arrived, bearing two messages.

"Sire, news from the black, her eggs have been laid, and by my own count, there are fifty eight." Said the small hobgoblin, snapping to attention "And Captain Farregard reports the appearance of three whites, and group of over three hundred of small creatures approaching. The creatures he called hordelings, and are relatives of the White Dragon"

Dagu's smile nearly took to his ears.

Eric awoke in hell. Upon awakening, a hot iron poker was immediately brought down upon his side, hissing as the red hot metal contacted his skin. Judging from the pains wracking his body, this was not the first time he had been burned.

The poker came in again, this time on his armpit, and Eric screamed, trying to draw his arm in, but he was bound, spread eagle, upon a wall. His vision swam, then even more as the poker was applied again, evicting another scream.

A scratchy voice, speaking to someone beyond Eric's unsteady sight spoke "Our little thief's awake now, isn't ye?"

Eric's vision returned, to see a squat, ugly, unshaven man leering at him, though his face was so disfigured that the leer may have been unintentional. The only light came from a brazier, in which several rods were resting, rods like the one the man had been using on Eric.

For another rod, but a smooth voice, speaking from the shadows beyond the brazier's circle of light halted him "Touch not our captive again, he has longer to live, and unnecessary pain shall only dull the true torture in store."

"Yes Master" said the man, bowing. He then rolled the brazier away, but not before launching a large lump of spittle and phlegm at Eric's face. Unable to wipe it off, Eric had to wait while it dripped down his cheek.

With the brazier gone, there was no light, and in the blackness, Eric knew greater fear than ever before, especially when the rats started scratching the floor around his feet, and climbing up his bare legs.


	5. Chapter 4

-14

Fateful Day

Murtal (May) 27, 1451

"Faster! I'll catch you!" Dar'ean's cries resounded through the hall, as blade clashed on blade. He and his student, 103 year old Faeral, were moon elves, he the master, and she the student. Dar'ean was a friend of her father, who was the leader of their town, Fidrael (literally, Forest Made), and was her children's trainer in arms. He had trained all seven of Baron Liadon's children, from his first boy, several centuries ago to Faeral now.

Faeral was an unusual student, and the blood of her parents seemed not to flow as strongly in her veins, for her father was a paladin and her mother a sorcerer, and all of her six siblings had shown a start down one of those roads by the time they reached 100 years. Faeral had not. She had no signs of magic blossoming from her fingertips, as two of the children had, of any feats of goodness, such as the Lay on Hands her oldest brother had performed at 82. No, Faeral was just Faeral, nothing magic, nothing godly, just plain Faeral.

A fact that pleased her greatly.

In lieu of her parents' paths, Faeral had trained hard at martial combat, sharpening her skills until she was almost a match for her trainer, though she could only stand against him for several minutes. She had honed her muscles into taut cords, but despite her trained body, her face remained pretty, not a common sight for a warrior, unscarred and clean. Her only oddity was self imposed, and it took the form of a blue triangle, running from her hairline down to come to a point about an inch above her mouth, its center, her right eye. Faeral had taken the mark from a traveler she had met, Gideon the bard, who had played in her father's hall, and left a deep impression upon Faeral. Since that meeting, Faeral had studied the flute, and was proficient playing it. Of course, musical proficiency to elves is excellence to humans.

Today, Faeral and Dar'ean fought, Dar'ean using a metal sparring pole to represent his sword in one hand, and his shield in the other. Faeral held only one weapon, and no shield. She did not favor the shield, thinking it too heavy and slow for her fighting style, though she couldn't deny its usefulness, as her attack again did little more than sound a not on Dar'ean's properly positioned shield. As her routine finished, Faeral, instead of dropping back to ward up a follow up attack from Dar'ean, fell into a crouch, spinning her foot and leg in a quick semicircle, meaning to trip her instructor. Dar'ean jumped it with ease, but had no place to land as Faeral suddenly threw her body into him, her sword-pole leading.

They tumbled backwards, and Faeral let her sword fall, knowing it would be no use in closer combat. From her belt she drew a smaller weapon, a rod representing a dagger, and stabbed it into Dar'ean's stomach. He stopped fighting, realizing he was defeated. Faeral stood up, her face wreathed in smiles, for she had won, a first against her trainer, and closest friend.

Dar'ean stood, brushing off his jacket, and bent to retrieve his shield and sword, which he had dropped when Faeral tackled him. He looked up to see his triumphant pupil running towards the wall, where their two names were written in chalk. For each fight there was a marking made, and all five hundred and sixty two were under his name. They had sparred many more times than that, but they only counted the ones in the last two years, for before that, Faeral was too inexperienced to win. Even today, Dar'ean mused, I held the advantage, and would have won but for curiosity at Faeral's unexpected routine change. Indeed, Dar'ean had held a dagger and was ready to "kill" Faeral with it when he felt the steel of her weapon on his stomach.

Faeral wrote a single line under her name, and then turned, to see Dar'ean standing, staring off into the distance, lost in thought. Believing her session today to be at an end, she turned to leave.

"Stop" came a command from Dar'ean "we are not finished for the day, your improvising was smart, but risky; too easily could a properly positioned blade have severed your foot, or a stronger opponent have wrestled you to a pin, and then easily killed you. An intelligent fighter must consider both the gain and loss that comes from each attack." In truth, Faeral had considered the pros and cons of her strike, but with practice weapons, the worse thing that could happen would be another loss, perhaps a bruised ankle, or an injured foot.

For the next hour, Faeral practiced with her bow, perfecting her already flawless technique of archery. Today, she received one of Dar'ean's hard earned compliments on the subject, and a tip. One of her shots, which Dar'ean timed with a small sandglass, allowed five seconds for her to extract an arrow, nock it to the cord, draw the bow, and fire, hitting the small target five hundred feet away.

Faeral hit the target dead center on her first shot.

"Pray, do it again, and split the arrow" Said Dar'ean, slapping a hand across unbelieving eyes. Faeral fit another shaft to her bow, and after a minutes aim, fired. The arrow did not split the first shot's, but when Dar'ean examined it, he found the end had been cracked, almost two inches into the shaft.

"Walking back to Faeral, he confessed "It's impossible to split an arrow, one in flight bends and sways, and the best that can be done is what you have accomplished, which is to break the end. Do not try for the whole arrow, it is impossible. If a perfect shot is fired, only with a miracle would the shaft go straight."

Faeral, angered replied "Then why make me do it?"

"To test you, even the wisest try the impossible, and even the greatest fail, I've failed, you've failed. Learn this fact, nobody, no matter how much training or practice or study, will ever be perfect, everyone will fail sometime. The best we can do is succeed in the things that matter, in love, in life, and in happiness."

"Yes" said a humbled Faeral "I shall heed your advice." Dar'ean was not so sure, for Faeral had a glint in her eye that only existed when she was going to make trouble. It came when she opened her mouth, "But…" she said "You said it was impossible for me to beat you before I reached adulthood, and yet, today I won our encounter"

Dar'ean's eyes narrowed, and Faeral realized she had gone too far, this day there was something troubling Dar'ean's mind, something that must have held him back in the fight, and something that made him, normally cheerful, solemn.

Faeral did not press the issue, but left the hall, to take her noon meal in the silence of the forest, where she felt increasingly at home.

As dusk settled over Fidrael, Faeral rode her horse through the woods, her bow over her back, for she was aware of the increasing number of orcs and goblins found in the forest of the Misty Vale. Never the less, she let her guard down for a moment atop a stony bluff, from which she could see the surrounding countryside. The setting sun in the west threw purple fire across the skies above the Dun Hills, and Faeral watched the last rays sink below the horizon before turning. Her horse, a magnificent roan named Jinar, grazed below her, cropping the long grass on the hillside. But of more immediate concern was the group of creatures, orcs, which had come up behind her while she watched the sunset.

Faeral reached for her bow but it was too late, the monsters were too close, and as she reached over her shoulder, one grabbed her arm and held it in a grip of iron. Faeral was strong, yes, but in a slender way, and she was no match for the orc's brute strength. She slapped him anyway, her hand ringing across his face, and in response, she was slugged, which staggered her. The only thing that kept her upright was the orc's hand, still upon her upraised arm. He was smiling, but the lewd grimace gave no confidence to Faeral as his eyes roamed her body.

"We'll have some fun with her before we gut her." The orcs guttural tongue was known to Faeral, and his words brought a trace of fear to her face. The orc licked his lips and ran a dirty finger down the front of Faeral's tunic. She slapped him again, but her continued, so she swung to hit him a third time, but he was ready. He opened his mouth, and bit Faeral's hand as it came in, breaking two of her fingers and causing blood to gush from numerous punctures made by his teeth.

He took no notice of her pain, but dropped her on her back, then grabbed her tunic just above her breast and tore it off, exposing her nakedness. She twisted away, but he persisted, his gang cheering him on.

The orc squatted over Faeral, and she tried to let her mind fly free of her body, a difficult task for one so in tune with her movements as she was. It was also made hard by the orc's comrades joining him, rubbing their filthy fingers, and worse, across her.

It was nearly midnight before Faeral could escape. Most of the orcs were slumbering by that time, and Faeral noiselessly slipped away into the bushes, leaving behind her broken bow, torn clothing, and virginity. As she ran, she nearly tripped over the carcass of poor Jinar, whom the orcs had slaughtered, and eaten, the once proud horse's exposed ribs and half eaten head appalled Faeral, and she was violently sick in the bushes before she could continue on.


	6. Chapter 5

Such a Damning word, Murderer

Murtal 28, 1451

Truly Faeral was a wretched thing as dawn broke over the trees, she had spent the night, still naked, in a tree, and did not sleep a wink, too afraid pf the phantoms that assaulted her every time she closed her eyes. She again saw the orc, grinning as it bent down over her. She again felt the pain of her broken fingers and scratched legs, as the orcs pawed at her. Faeral shivered, and suppressed a scream.

During the night, she had escaped from certain death, and was tired, alone and scared. Lost she was not, for she knew the woods like the back of her hand, and once she mastered her fear, a feat that took over an hour, Faeral set off, the march was long, but the reminders of orcs in the area gave speed to Faeral's legs.

She reached the wall of Fidrael as the sun reached it's zeniath and the bell tolled high noon. From the cover of the bushes she hailed a guardsman in a shaky voice, for she had heard movement behind her. The guardsman demanded that she show herself, but Faeral refused, but ordered him, in the name of her father, to bring her some clothing, anything, so that she may keep her pride as she entered the city. The guardsman did not refuse, for to disobey the Baron's children would earn a reprimand, though not from the baron, but from his superiors.

Five minutes later, the guard reappeared with a woolen tunic slung over his arm, the best he could find in the short time. He walked from a small gate set in the wall, while five archers covered him from the rooftops. When he neared Faeral's hiding place, she reached out and snatched the clothing from his startled hand, then, a moment later reappeared, her frame covered in the tunic, which proved to be a little too large, and kept slipping from her shoulder.

The guard stepped back when Faeral appeared, and looked away. She was about to yell at him when she realized what she must look like. Her hair was a mass of twigs and leaves, with large areas matted with dried blood. Her face was scratched and both her eyes were blackened. Her arms and legs were covered in gashed, which the frenzied orcs had inflicted with their teeth and nails. All in all, Faeral thought, I must be sickening.

The guard, turned back, and offered Faeral his arm, which she collapsed upon, nearly fainting in relief. She thought was safe, though as she was led through the city, she saw she was not. Where before townsfolk had been, angry eyes peered at her, and hands were ready to take advantage of her. Even the women looked her way with a touch of loathing.

By the time Faeral reached her estate, she was nearly in tears. She fled from the guard, who had turned from a kind supporter into a cruel villian, whose only motiv was to injure her further. Running up the staircases in her house, Faeral came to her wing, then found and fell onto her bed, then hopped back up, hearing someone in the hall outside. She yelped in fear, then slammed the door, and threw the bolt, pushing it farther than it should go.

Faeral lay down on her bed and cried herself to sleep, but her dreams brought no comfort. She again saw the orc, taking advantage of her, but this time he was joined by the townsfolk, the guard at their head.

Faeral woke up sweating.

The noon bell rang in the Liadon Manor, and Faeral had not left her room, but remained inside, with the door locked. Several servants rapped on the door, inquired about a midday repast. They left after only silence greeted their questions.

The sun was halfway through its descent when Faeral left her room, tired of the four walls. Her eyes darted from corner to corner, and she was again afraid, for she knew someone would take advantage of her if she allowed it. Her right hand stayed close to the dagger in her belt, and he was constantly ready to draw it and defend herself.

Faeral had healed some of her wounds, the ones on her skin, with various salves, but her deepest one remained, the wound in her heart. She was convinced she would be outcast, and that the world was waiting to rape her.

Rounding a corner, she yelped as she ran into a male servent coming the other way, and had to spend a minute reassuring her that he only had tried to keep her from falling, not hurt her.

Leaving her father's estate, she moved into the town, going to see the gardens and fountains. She walked, then ran, her mind seeing the townsfolk, aain, as people waiting to scar her even more. The park beckoned, and she sprinted into it, seeking solitude again. She halted her flight upon a stone bench, and sat there for many minutes, rocking back and forth and trying to get the orc, who had come to haunt her thoughts again, out of her head.

Her eyes were closed when she felt a hand on her shoulder, and she jumped almost a foot. Without thinking, for the orc was still in her thoughts, she whipped out her knife and plunged it behind her, into her assailents breast, just as he called to her "Faeral, are you…" the rest was drowned by a gurgle. Faeral's eyes snapped open, for she recognized the voice. She, to her horror, beheld Dar'ean, her knife sunk up to its hilt in his chest. His eyes questioned her, and his breathing was shallow. He coughed, and blood flowed from his mouth. Faeral wrapped her arms around him, and hugged him close, crying aloud for someone to save him. Dar'ean's lips moved, and Faeral leaned closer.

"Faeral, why?" he questioned, his voice lower than a whisper "Why?"

With a last shuddering breath, Dar'ean died, his soul leaving its mortal confines. Faeral felt his body go limp in her arms, and screamed. All her fear, her anger, her sadness was vented into the air. Birds were shook from the trees while people came to see the source of the noise. With her lungs empty, Faeral felt blackness closing over her, and she welcomed it.

Several seconds later, Faeral felt water splash over her and she opened her eyes to see a gaggle of townsfolk around her. Dar'ean's body was still clutched in her arms, and he was still warm. Hot tears of grief fell from Faeral's eyes, stinging with her loss. Someone tried to pull Dar'ean away from her, but she held him closer.

Then, someone noticed the knife. The handle stuck out from under Fearal's arm, and it didn't take the curious townsfolk long to spot the empty sheath at her waist.

Suddenly, from one throat, then from many came the call "MURDERER!" It was yelled from person to person, and Faeral felt the pain of their scorn, but it was dulled by the loss of Dar'ean. Even the memory of rape was banished to a far corner of her mind, though it nagged at the edge of her conscience, like a thor that would not suffer to be removed, even through great pain.

There was a tremor in the crowd, and the guard pushed through. Faeral recognized the helpful one from that morning. He was not looking as friendly now, not with his sword drawn and the tip, along with his three comrades' blades, ringing her throat.

"On your feet murderer" growled one. Faeral slowly let go of Dar'ean's body, laying it gently on the ground. Her vision was blurry from the tears that continued to pour forth, but she was careful, and Dar'ean's body thudded softly onto the grass, away from the muddy puddle of his spilt blood. Then Faeral stood, and the guards, two with their blades by her throat, and the remaining pair flanking her to the front and back.

As the sun set, again throwing fire through the sky, Faeral was set before a panel of jurors, one of which was her father. They would decide her fate. Since Faeral was of semi-royal blood, she probably would not be killed, even if this was a human court. Elves did not practice capital punishment anyway, unless the criminal was simply too dangerous to let live. Faeral could face several hundred years in prision though, a prospect she would not relish.

The jury debated until the moon had risen, and even then many of the members disagreed with the final decision.

Faeral was exiled, never again, on pain of imprisionment, to return to Fidrael.

Her father disagreed. He did not wish her exiled. No, in his righteous fury, he proclaimed for all to hear that he wished for his name to be taken from Faeral, leaving her not as Faeral Dunnahor Liadon, but as Faeral, the outcast. He wanted her imprisoned for life, or killed, for she, in his mind, was now a simple murderer, one who lived to cause pain. Faeral, stunned by his outburst, accepted her rejection with a bowed head, and fresh tears flowed from her eyes.

Faeral departed Fidrael later that night, carrying only her dagger, a clean tunic, and rations for two days. Plus a new tattoo on her arm, just below the shoulder. A red X with the word Fidrael underneath it, marking her forever as exiled from the city of her youth.

Faeral walked from the town, not once looking back, and her eyes dry of tears. She felt no more fear, just anger, hatred, and malice. The world had turned its back on her, and she would turn her back on the world.

Faeral resolved not to leave Misty Vale, and face life in other cities, but rather remain, living off of the land, truly free.


	7. Chapter 6

6

Life, Liberty, and Pursuit

Kythorn (June) 7, 1451

Eric had been a prisoner of the Darkspawn assassins for over a month. His body had borne the brunt of torture, of the rack, of the brands, of the knives, and still he had the will to live. Eric was scarred, his body having scabbed over knife wounds in many places, along with dark parts of branded and blackened skin, but his mind was free. He sustained himself on thoughts of Anor, of the boy he loved as a son, free above, his arm mended and his legs unfettered.

Eric slumped against the wall of his cell. The doorway, blocked by a heavy metal grate, was narrow, and by ingenious design, the heavy ball shackled to his left leg was too wide to fit through it, even if Eric could summon the strength to move the great iron monolith. Eric had no window, but his body told him it was night, for it was always night, according to his internal clock, for he was always in need of sleep.

Outside his cell was nothing but a blank stone hallway, where a jailor would walk, a drawn blade cold in his hand. Eric rested against the wall, the stones more than comfortable, compared to the harsh tortures he had undergone. His eyes were almost closed when he heard a dull thump, then a slight clatter. He jerked them open, and then rushed to the bars. In the hall, the guard was on his back, his blood flowing from his throat, which was cut. His sword was on the floor beside him. There was no sign of a killer. Eric curled his hands into fists, hardly daring to hope.

Then he heard a small voice, and convinced himself he was insane, for from the empty air outside the cell grate, Anor's voice issued. "Eric, is that you?"

Eric's voice was cracked and hoarse "Aye, tis me."

Anor seemingly stepped from the air, "I've come to save you!"

From behind Anor, another man appeared. He was tall and young, but his eyes carried the wisdom of one many years older. He was of elvish descent, for his ears were pointed and his skin held a touch of gold, but the rest of his lineage was unknown to Eric, for his hair, unlike anything Eric had ever seen, was light blue, like the sky on a clear day. The man's clothes were designed to allow easy movement, a sleeveless shirt and a pair of loose pants, both black. A slight breeze seemed to accompany the man, springing from nowhere, and only existing around him. It blew his hair back over his shoulders and ruffled his clothes, but otherwise, the wind seemed not to affect him. A recorder rode at the man's waist, next to a well used rapier.

Eric looked to Anor, his gaze questioning the nature of the stranger. Anor only nodded, this single motion calming Eric's suspicions.

The man put his hand to the grate, and muttered something in a different language, something that Eric could not begin to fathom. Then there was a tone, low but clear, and the grille disintegrated, reduced to a pile of dust and metal slivers. Rather than repeat the spell, the man drew his blade and sliced through Eric's chains as if they had been made of paper.

Eric was free, and in his quaking voice, he thanked his savior, many times, before throwing a bear hug around Anor. Several of his scabs cracked open with the movement, and blood oozed down his side. Eric paid it no heed, for he was free. Scooping up the guard's sword, he brandished it, daring any Darkspawn to show his face.

The blue haired man was down at another cell, conversing with the occupant in a beautiful language that felt out of place in the gloomy setting. Eric guessed, correctly, that it was Elven. Then he repeated the spell he had used on Eric's door, and out stepped another person. He was tall and elven as well, but he was obviously a cross of human and elven blood, and his skin showed the same golden tinge as his savior's. The two held a whispered conversation, then from nowhere, the blue haired man produced a long bladed spear, and the freed man took it from him, spinning it several times, end over end, for no apparent reason. Eric could hear the hum from where he was, over forty feet away.

The pair joined Eric and Anor, and the half-elf introduced himself as Roance, and his brother, "one of very few words," as Aymon.

Aymon's hands worked in the motions of a new spell, and he tossed several pieces of filmy material into the air along with fine dust, which emitted smoke. He touched all of them, and Eric felt himself become insubstantial. He looked down at his body, and saw he was floating several inches off of the floor, with his body a thin mist, almost invisible in the dim light.

"Follow me" said Aymon, and, without waiting for a response, floated away. Eric put his mind to the task of movement, and glided after him. The party did not move fast, each person's speed being about a third of the speed of a man's walking pace. Insubstantiality proved to be a plus though, For Aymon led them through cracks in the walls, always in an upward direction, until the were above ground, in a public square.

It was night, and as soon as the group touched down, they all became solid again. Aymon sang a few notes, and then laid his hand on Roance's chest, emitting a blue pulse of energy, which targeted the man's few injuries. Aymon walked to Eric then, and repeated the process, except to a higher degree. A burst of light flowed from his palm, targeting Eric's many wounds, restoring and revitalizing him.

Roance spoke, his clear voice ringing across the pavestones "We should move, that building…" he indicated a large, stone fronted structure, almost identical to those around it "…is the guild house of the Darkspawn, and they have been known to horribly execute escaped prisoners. I know a safe house not far from her, where several of my companions live."

Without waiting for an answer, Roance walked away at a brisk pace, so brisk, in fact, than Anor had to jog to keep up with him.

Unknown to them, a man had found the guard's body, and throughout the assassins' guild, the alarm was spreading. As the escapees rounded a corner and moved from the square, several hidden doors opened around the area, and five catchers walked into the open, each controlling a chain that held a rat, though these were more than rats, each was the size of a large dog. Dire rats, they were called, and were throwbacks from an age long past.

The men, none shorter than six feet tall, and none under two hundred pounds, were fearsome to behold, and they could do their job well. They started off after the four, the dire rats straining on their collars.

Roance led the group down street after street, turning, twisting alleyways. After over ten minutes of walking, he stopped and rapped on a door, two soft knocks, then two hard ones, then a third, soft again. Several seconds later, the door opened, to reveal an aging man. His beard hung to his chest and he had a stooped posture, but his eyes were bright.

"Roan, how nice to see you!" he exclaimed, pulling Roance into a hug "What trouble have you gotten into now?"

"Darkspawn." It was not Roance who spoke it, but Aymon.

The man paled, then regained his composure, and hurriedly beckoned them inside. "Quick, quick, before someone sees!" His eyes darted around the buildings around them, and, apparently satisfied, he closed the door.

Inside, the house was small, and didn't seem very well protected, until the man pulled away several of the floor stones to reveal a wooden trapdoor. Wrenching on the ring to open it, he quickly motioned the group into a cellar, presumably used as a refuge in times of trouble, for an occupant could pull several sheets of thick metal over the opening. Also, the walls were lined with food, not food one would enjoy eating, but food none the less. Eric fell upon it, filling his starving stomach with anything he could find.

Upstairs several loud knocks sounded, and the man's voice, yelling a reply that he was coming. The knocks continued, then came a crash as the door was smashed off of its hinges. The old man began cursing, telling, in no uncertain terms, his opinion of the culprit's parentage.

A rasp of steel was heard, and then the man screamed. Several seconds later, blood dripped down into the cracks around the trapdoor. Aymon made several gestures, murmuring "Hyinalo Rehake Aura!" A small blue square appeared in midair, from which a cloud exited. Eric blinked, for darker bits of the cloud seemed to form a pair of eyes, but it may have been his imagination. In a voice of whooshing wind and moving storms Aymon stated a command. The cloud floated upwards, ignoring the presence of the trapdoor completely, disappeared for a moment, then returned, and spoke, surprising Eric, though he was now recognizing the cloud as a sentient being. The cloud's words, like those of Aymon seconds earlier were in another language, sounding like the low rumble of a tornado. With a clap of his hands, Aymon dismissed the cloud, then he relayed the information he had gathered.

"Furnor is dead. " Roance let out a moan, and then contorted in rage, his knuckles white on the haft of his spear. Aymon continued "his body lies above us on the trapdoor, and his killers have moved into the next house. We are safe for the moment."

As the words left his lips, a snarl came from above, then the sound of floor stones grating, and then an exclamation of discovery. Aymon muttered several syllables, and the cloud returned, but crackling with lightning. Roance brandished his spear, growling, clearly wanting to avenge his friend's death. Eric picked up his sword, which he had kept from the guard, and Anor drew two long daggers, both showing signs of wear.

The hatch was pulled up, and a vile creature leaped in. A squeal was all it managed before Roance spitted it upon his spear, and then expertly withdrew the weapon. A gout of black blood spurted from the dead creature, drenching the half elf. Eric drew back from the foul smelling liquid. Looking up, Eric beheld a large man with a huge axe leering down at them. Aymon drew his rapier and swiftly ran up the ladder to the opening, his cloud following. Roance ran in his wake, followed by Anor, and then Eric.

The scene in the hut shocked Eric. The old man was stretched out, obviously dead. There was a puddle of blood around him and trails on the floor showed he had been dragged from his former position. The creature that Roance had killed seemed to have eaten a portion of him. IN another corner, the Darkspawn man was on his knees, hamstringed expertly by Aymon. Aymon's rapier darted in and out, each strike connecting and bringing away bright blood. The cloud was around the man's head, lightning strikes constantly flashing and the roar of the wind evident. The man fell, showing an endless number of gashes around his body. When the cloud moved from his head, Eric saw the man's eyes had been burnt out, and none of his hair or beard remained. Aymon's attacks may have been effective, but the damage was mostly inflicted by his cloud.

From the street came two more men, both holding chains controlling huge rats. Eric recoiled. _This_ is what the creature in the chamber was. Roance had a good reason for slaying it. These were obviously feral.

Seeing their dead comrade, the men released the chains. The rats lunged forward. Roance twirled his spear, slamming the butt down one's throat, then turning to plunge the blade into its heart. The other jumped at Eric, who held the sword before him, his legs spread to absorb the impact. The rat collided with him, and Eric was obliged to hack at it, nearly severing its head. While their pets attacked, the men had not been idle. One raised a wand and muttered a word. From the wand leaped a small ball of glowing orange, which detonated twenty feet above the ground, forming a pillar of flame that shot upwards, illuminating the night. The second lifted a sword, and charged, crashing into Anor, and bearing the lighter boy to the ground. Anor plunged his daggers into the man, but he seemed not to notice. The man stood erect again, his chest bloodied, then stabbed down with his sword, sparking off of the floor where Anor had been a second before. Then Aymon and his cloud were upon him. In less than fifteen seconds, he stooped over, dead from a thrust of Aymon's rapier. The final man attacked recklessly, unperturbed by his companions' death. The butt of Roance's spear crashed into his stomach, than a broad sweep of Eric's sword cut into his neck, spraying blood everywhere. The man died quickly, his expression puzzled.

"RUN!" Roance yelled, pointing at the fiery column, "Darkspawn approach!" He sprinted off into the night, followed closely by Aymon, then Anor and Eric, running side by side, Anor supporting Eric, who was bleeding from some of his unhealed wounds and feeling weak.


End file.
